


Corsola

by calculatingMinutiae



Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [7]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Character Study, Depression, Fun with Ghost Logic, Gen, Ghost!Allister, New Year's Resolutions, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculatingMinutiae/pseuds/calculatingMinutiae
Summary: Stow-on-side, 2016.Stow-on-side has changed, in the last one-hundred-twenty-five years.Allister has not.
Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576204
Comments: 6
Kudos: 105





	Corsola

**Author's Note:**

> Now with cover art: https://2sp00ky.tumblr.com/post/190039596380/its-not-perfect-but-i-like-to-think-that-life
> 
> Might I suggest revisiting at the end of the chapter to see how much more sense it makes?

Stow-on-side has changed, in the last one-hundred-twenty-five years. Allister has not; not behind the mask he's taken to wearing out here in the so-called " _real_ world", where the _real_ living people can _really_ see him drift aimlessly along the streets. For a place so in tune with its history, the tiny town is almost unrecognizable as the shadow of a settlement in his distant memories. Nostalgia is dead, and the electric street lamps and rusted aluminum siding are haunted. 

Haunting is a very specific phenomenon, in Allister's mind. It's not quite that he feels so strongly about this place that he's bound to remain there, but that he considers the quiet cliffside town worthy of being recalled and explored. Allister's haunting is performative for an audience of none. He has no aim, sauntering down a street tinged deep blue by the midnight sky, looking up to cozy-warm lights in cheap homesteads where three generations of a family could commune (and argue) around one table. It doesn't make him feel any better. The correct, _polite_ response is to be happy for them, happy that comfort and joy still exist in this place. The only answer he can scrape from the sides of his hollow chest cavity is to nod in such a way that his head only barely shifts position and keep skulking along the trail of dust lain before him.

He has not felt very strongly at all, of late. The closest he's come is feeling fear and anxiety, two plagues he supposes will never leave him be, even beyond his dying breath. There have been hints of something like fondness or amusement, or nettle stings of betrayal and heartache, but it never feels bone-deep the way the anxiety does. There are only samples beyond that, number around the edges by persistent apathy. 

_Shouldn't you be overjoyed? Shouldn't you at least be happy?_

It's frustrating, insofar as it takes up thoughts and stubbornly persists. He knows, logically, that he _should_ feel something (he's seen Opal exaggerate emotions enough to be well aware of their mechanics, the phenotypes, enough to mimic) but it all feels like a lie. He doesn't like lying, much. It never lasts long and hurts more than helps. 

He glances up at the stairs in the center of town. They've never seemed so empty before. 

Not even a tour group dares to ascend the spiral staircase leading to the mural more famous than Stow-on-side itself, a stray candy wrapper crumbling gracelessly in the night breeze. Everyone is either at home, safe and warm, or at the psychic-type gym with its constant, pulsating lights and sounds. _Scares all the spirits away_ , so he thinks; he'd have a headache were he still confined to having a head. _It might be meant to, what with the type matchup._

He shakes his head with an idle sigh. Either Opal put him up to challenging the psychic leader to give him a pitiful confidence boost, or she'd wanted to show him that his own home is actively rejecting him. _It's neither_ , he knows in his heart of hearts, _but it feels like it_.

The one good thing about the gym, at least, is that it takes attention away from his arrival. Now that he has the little ivory charm Opal has gifted him, she's not the only one who can see him. He can be _seen_ by the masses now, which is, frankly, nerve-wracking on its own, but this far he's been lucky enough not to be _noticed_. 

The mask has gotten him a few stray glances, but none so persistent he's been prompted to explain. _You can't just say "it feels nice,_ " he huffs, feet dangling over the edge of the seaside cliff. _Or "correct." Or " it doesn't feel right in front of so many eyes without it, adults always harp on contact between eyes, and it just feels invasive and wrong to do it and with my masks they'll never know." Just call it a gimmick and call it a night. It's not even a real lie._

The wind howls through iron-wrought bars behind him, threatening to sweep his featherlight form across the sea with it. Yet another mild inconvenience of Being. He shudders to think of leaving so suddenly, when he's sparsely left the forest in the last century. Leaving everything he's ever known, even distantly, on the whim of forces that don't care to so much as notice he's there in the fray; it's a frightening thought. He steels himself against the cliffside, then slinks down, down closer to the coastline. It's shelter, if nothing else. Not like if he slips he'll die. 

He finds he's propelled further and further down the cliff, though he couldn't say why. He's far out of sight, now, almost certainly out of reach for anyone in town, and he can hardly hear the thrum of the gym's cheering, stomping masses anymore. Peace and quiet. He walks along the rocks, careful to scale above the waves that slam haphazardly into the landmass. The soft spray of seafoam on skin eludes him. The sound of it soothes his nerves as well, but it doesn't satisfy the anticipation. 

Allister only stops once he comes to a small inlet. Its waters have mostly receded, leaving a mirror-still pool in the center of the sheltered alcove. He wishes he could shift his fingers through the sand, letting it slip through grain by grain, but all is dull and unimpactful when he sits down. He can barely feel anything beyond the boundary of the ground, and he dares not question the sanctity of _that._ It is still, it is quiet. Numb. 

Lonely. It is also very lonely, down here. 

Not even the errant cry of a frillish echoes in this hidden hideaway, mostly pristine, if dirty with natural sediments suspended in the water. The hustle and bustle of the gym challenge is blocked out by sturdy rock walls, a brief relief more than anything else. He supposes it'd be cold, if he could feel the chill of the air creep over his shoulder. It too is blunt and numb. 

He absentmindedly skips a stone on the water. _Two, three, four,_ it plunks into the shallow abyss. _Huh,_ he sighs, nonchalant. _Opal would've made it past seven._ He tilts his head over to his shoulder' watching the idle tide. 

He is not prepared for something to be watching him _back._

*

You throw the rock back. 

It doesn't take the full extent of your Ancient Power to do it, but you can't bring yourself to to spend any disdain you dredge up on this good-for-nothing walker. It's just sitting there, kicking its feet without a care in the world, _assaulting_ your increasingly brittle shell. It doesn't even have the decency to laugh at your expense. In fact, it just sits there, hideous holes where a skull should be gaping in perpetual stupor, unyielding or reacting _at all_. 

You wing the rock its way, and it barely notices you. Hardly looks up, with it's big, solid-black eyes, only to then burrow down to your very core. You will be protecting that core, thank you very much. It's all you have _left._

You chirp at it. 

It tilts its head at you. 

You chirp harder, _louder_ , you will make yourself heard. This is _your_ crash site, and it will _not_ be invaded by a being that exists to destroy whatever it touches! So help you (who are you kidding, nobody is coming to help you. You'd even take a mareanie, at this point, but the pokemon in this strange land think nothing of your obvious distress calls. You have to face this on your own), if you must dedicate your un-living existence to eradicating this singular scourge from the world _you will do it_ , and fade from this mortal plane knowing you did more for it than it ever did for you. 

Your new body, however, can only toddle around and sway from side to side. Even without the intimidation you want, you decide you'll make do. You're on the offensive. 

This thing, this. Boy? You've seen them before, gently breaching the surface of the water as they swim, land-dwelling walkers too delicate in constitution to live breathe and sweat salt water the way you do, you heard a big one yell at a small one to " _boy! get back here, the tide is coming in"_ and the connection grows clearer. This boy stares at you as you approach. It seems… less than afraid, really. Almost _curious_. 

"Hello there…," it starts, in a dialect you can actually understand. "What might you be? … Don't be scared, nothing around here worth fearing." 

You flare out the spectral matter that spews from where your limbs and branches used to be. It looks, adding insult to injury, _amused_. 

"Oi, none of that now. You're okay…" 

_Obviously not_ , you wish you could hiss like a whiscash, and must instead settle for clacking against the inside of your tomb-slash-skin.

"See, you think that now. Could always be worse. Bigger fish, and what not." 

_Moron_. 

"That's an opinion." 

_Are you. Are you actually trying to communicate?_ is the best you can come up with, tilting too far to one side and capsizing into the bay. 

It laughs, barely above audible, and then it lays a hand on you. 

_What do you think you're—_

And then you're on solid ground, again, right-side-up. It's back in its original position. _You_ are the one to have migrated to its side. 

"'S alright. Galar can be a nice place, you know. Find I enjoy it most with my head facing the right way, though." 

Your eyes remain dark. You refuse to dignify it with a response. Other than, maybe, _Galar?_

"Yeah… you've just washed up here, yes? The Galar region. Near Stow-on-side." 

_Never heard of it._

"I shouldn't expect so," it sighs. It's practically wistful. "Not many corsola around here. And the ones that are, well, certainly don't _live_ here." 

There's something corrosive in his tone, charged with too much frustration and disappointment to simply be _bitter_. Its face fails to change. 

_And why shouldn't they?_

"Oh, I wish they did. We all wish they did, but what's to be done, yeah? Except better," it folds its fingers into a fist that remains miraculously sand-free. 

_Something like you? Doubtful,_ you so-so-studiously point out. _You rip through things, find what you want, and throw the rest away. When it comes back around to you, you should hardly be surprised. Cowards. All of you, cursing us to waddle where we should be swimming, freezing and watching ourselves crumble in the currents that used to carry us, and nurture us, and you just had to take it for your own. I have HAD IT._

The boy stares at you, with its big, unblinking eyes, its stagnant expression. It looks at you, and clearly feels nothing. It ruins your life and damns you to a new, restless un-life, and it doesn't even care. It doesn't emote _at all_. 

You pitch another rock its way, right in the center of its big, stupid face. 

It phases through. 

You don't know what to make of this. 

"You're still here," it says, as though you hadn't noticed that already. "You can try to spend it feeling like the world owes you for how hurt you've been... but it won't fix anything. It still happened, and it happened to you. But _it_ isn't _you_ , yeah?"

You click at the boy from within your withered shell. It doesn't do anything: it doesn't affect the outside world, the sound barely reverberating over the crash of the waves against the cliffs, swallowed by the water and swept out to sea. Taken, to be broken down and recycled, never to rest. At least it signifies your displeasure with the whole situation in the here and now. 

It looks down at you, expression still unchanged. You get the nagging feeling there's something kind to those soulless eyes. 

"You don't have to trust me… or like me, even. But you can have a new life here if you want it." 

_Did you?_

The boy makes a sound, a hoarse sort of half-giggle you can only barely categorize. It doesn't sound very threatening, at least. 

"I don't plan to waste it," it says. "It's not perfect, but I like to think that life is worth living." 

_… I'm angry_. 

"That's fair." 

_I want them to hurt like I do._

"Can you still feel it?" 

_Feel what_?

"Pain." 

_… Less, now. But they can't get away with causing it._

"Pain is a signal your body wants to stay alive," the boy folds its hands, clapping them over its folded knee. "You best listen."

_To... pain._

"To sensations. You get to miss them, even if they hurt." 

You scoff, and watch little ripples skim the water's surface. The boy is silent. Contemplating. 

"People aren't all bad, you know."

_Really, now?_

"Yeah." 

You, peering down into the water, stab one of your branches through and pierce through the lackadaisical stillness. You also stab through a candy wrapper. 

The boy recoils a bit, gently sliding it off of you, at least until it realizes _it can't_. 

How could it have possibly hit you, then? 

You shove the thought aside. 

"They aren't all good, either. They're just people." 

_And people take it on themselves to use every scrap they can reach until nothing is left. Then they don't care anymore._

"Of course they do."

_No._

The boy, with its ever-still expression, picks you up around the middle. You do not protest; it's not like you have much else to do. 

"Come on, then. I'll show you."

*

When next you open your eyes, you are on solid ground. In fact, you are in tall grass that extends over your head. A well-timed rocking and shift of your core's weight send you flying out of the grass and into a fragile heap at the feet of the boy. 

The boy has shed its face. It is no longer pale, and stagnant, and full of holes and blank darkness, but one with violet eyes. Big eyes, violet, with heavy dark circles underneath, a tiny spot on its chin under its mouth. This face looks just as tired as you feel. 

"Are you okay," the boy asks, though it does not sound particularly inquisitive.

_What is this place?_

"We call it a cemetery. Each of those stones marks a person who passed. They keep them all here, so living people can visit and remember."

 _Why am I here then?_

"People wouldn't remember if they didn't care at least a little. It's no use remembering, not to an individual. There's no power they get from keeping graves. But they still do," 

_And they waste more things they've taken on nothing._

"It's not. Perfect," the boy says, a little louder this time. "But it's very human." 

_Human. Is that what you are?_

"Was," the ex-human smiles, and you can see it clearly, now. You ask it a question before you can think better of it. 

_Do you have a stone?_

It shakes its head. 

_They forgot you too._

It nods. 

_Why aren't you angry?_

"Because the people I'd be angry at are long gone." 

_So?_

"Taking it out on new people doesn't fix it. I want," it stutters a bit, tongue flicking against its dull teeth. "I want to decide to care." 

You watch the former-still-human sit down against the cliff face, its eyes closed as the sun encroaches the horizon. Perhaps against your better judgement, you shuffle off for a moment. The human doesn't move. 

You return with a pebble to place at its side. 

_I think I might too._

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year, all! No matter what's happened, I hope you always choose to be kind.


End file.
